


Another Moment.  And Then Yet Another.

by WinterDusk



Series: If, Just Maybe [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bullying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, What-If, Young!Loki, Young!Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 23:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20629421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDusk/pseuds/WinterDusk
Summary: Loki knows he’s not Odin’s golden child; suspects he’s likely not the queen’s child at all.  So when things go badly, it’s not like he can turn to family for help.  Can he?Can be read as a standalone.





	Another Moment.  And Then Yet Another.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this story spins out of 'Keeping Score', though it can be read as a standalone AU to MCU, set in Thor and Loki’s youth.

_Afterwards_. Afterwards Loki sits on the flagstones and licks his wounds. Metaphorically, at least. Though he wouldn’t mind cleaning out the physical ones either. The laughing, jeering, bear-hugging gang of… of _trouble makers_ move on quickly enough. They’ve had their fun.

They’ve ruined Loki’s fun.

Not the Queen’s books though. Their spines – red and brown; green and gold; beige and black-lined fire – are neatly stacked up where they’ve been left, one on top of another, on the low stone wall that’s mostly hidden from view their fracas.

When Loki stands, he’ll be visible to everyone.

He sits instead, legs drawing in, underneath himself, tailor style. While he does so, he tries to gather his bearings. Gather his dignity. Cast his Seidr forth; a shimmering struggling illusion that flickers as he tries to focus enough for his indignity to become obscured.

For a moment he almost gives it up as a bad idea; his nerves too rattled. But, at the last moment, the illusion catches and holds; a perfect casting of a perfect prince; not a hair out of place.

Standing, Loki collects his books and tries to figure out the fastest route back to his rooms.

#

He’s almost past Thor’s door when the compulsion hits him.

It’s a ridiculous compulsion and so, for a long moment, Loki just stands there, twin desires warring within him. Firstly comes the old, familiar certainty that he needs to hide this; these signs that he’s failed in yet another of Asgard’s trials-by-brute force. For he must be strong – a prince of the realm, if not the realm’s most beloved one – and he _is_ capable of solving his own problems. The second urge, inexplicably, is that he should go, bang on Thor’s door, confess to his failures, and have the big oaf take care of it all for him.

Which, of course, Loki can’t do: that would mean acting like a child.

But it’s not hard to see from whence this novel impulse stems. For it’s clearly some lingering effect of talking with Friggason. Barely a handful of days in the same realm and yet Loki has grown used to having someone in his corner. But Friggason has gone and Loki’s not pathetic enough to dream that the fat, battered, strangely _grounded_ warrior will return. Magic such as that summoned during his departure… That wasn’t an accidental casting. Friggason had somewhere to go; some destiny to achieve. He’s not returning for Loki, and Loki’s not the type of man to live on daydreams.

No. He’s not some mewling brat.

Straightening his shoulders which, while distracted, seem to have sagged wearily, Loki resumes his walk home. He hurts. Everything hurts. And he’d be lying if, somewhere under all of the illusions and pride, he couldn’t feel an all-consuming exhaustion building.

Why does this always happen to _him_? Why not to Thor, who’s bloody fond of battle? Who’s strong and fearless and would tear through the lot of carousing wretches in a heartbeat, probably having a roaring time of it, too? Which, of course, is why no one would ever, _ever_ dream of thrashing him.

Maybe if Loki can just find the right martial skill? The right spell? Some subtle herb or influence or…?

He realises that he’s stopped again. Worse yet, that every stitch of him feels… simply dreadful.

That he still has three long corridors and a flight of stairs to climb; a door to seal; herbs to gather and craft; wounds to clean; poultices to affix-

“Brother?” Thor has opened his door and is blinking at Loki, apparently startled to see him there. Well, that makes two of them.

There’s a long pause during which Loki just _knows_ that he’s meant to say something. It’s just that he can’t figure out what those words are. Maybe he should simply turn his back and carry on his way?

Instead he bursts into tears.

#

_Later_. Much, much, much later, and he’s swaddled in a thick fur, resting in Thor’s deep window seat and looking out, over the tiers of the palace and down towards the market. Even though the glass, Loki can hear the comings and goings of far too many people. It would drive him mad to be exposed to this much interruption all of the time. So strange that his brother, never know for spy-games or political over-observation, is happy with such an outlook.

Yet, for all that Loki is not in his own sanctuary, he is warm and clean and surprisingly pain free.

Currently Thor is pattering about near to an immense fireplace where he’s insisted on lighting a roaring blaze. He swears that the heat will help work the strain from Loki’s muscles; Loki’s certain that he’s wrong.

Still, in other respects Thor has proved to be an… unexpectedly helpful attendant. And a startlingly prepared one at that. It’s strange watching his brother wind bandages and check the temperature of the wine mulling by the fire. Oddly domestic, though it crosses Loki’s mind that he’s seen this side of his brother before, on quests and in the aftermath of action.

And where Loki would have mixed up herbs for healing potions, Thor appears to have a well-stocked cupboard arrayed with bottles and jars. Loki might have balked at using such off-the-shelf healing, save that Eir’s mark lies across the seal of each and every one. And, while an actual visit to the Goddess of Healing would have brought forth a flurry of questions and judgmental looks, here Loki’s only had to deal with the unpleasant burning side-effects of the potions themselves; Thor has been notably inscrutable throughout the entire process of patching him up. Loki wonders how long this will last.

#

The dam to Thor’s questions holds until Loki has a warm mug in his hands, and half of its contents down his throat. Then Thor draws up a stool and sits himself down in front of Loki. Loki would like to think that, by sitting on the window seat and thence towering over his older brother, he’d feel less pathetic. But, even when he’s looking up at one, Thor’s all broad shoulders and muscular hands and the gleam of polished leather sparring kit; there’s no mistaking him for a supplicant.

“So.” And that’s all that Thor says. It shouldn’t be enough to pin Loki, yet it is.

He stalls, sipping at his wine and enjoying the flush of it warming his shaken nerves. Manages to meet Thor’s gaze over the rim of the cup and tries to sound defiant when he says, “So what?”

Whatever he’d expected, it isn’t for Thor to laugh. Oh, it’s not Thor’s usual laughter, loud and brash, but rather a knowing, remorseful sound. It’s that alone that stops Loki from lashing out. Alas, that he’s so thrown by Thor’s unusual response that he stalls in his reply; yielding the prerogative in this interrogation to one known for closing in fast for the kill. “You come to my rooms, Loki, bloody and shocked, and expect to say nothing of the events which have led to this?”

Put like that, it does sound rather unreasonable. It’s just that, now that nothing hurts, Loki’s aware that he’s just shown himself up as a hopelessly needy babe seeking his brother’s protection. And for what? What _exactly_ does he expect Thor to do? To beat up the perpetrators for him? Oh, yes, it’s not enough that Loki’s reputation as a warrior is mud right now; it can always get worse. After this it _will_ get worse.

“Yes?” He tries, hating that it comes out as a question.

Thor sighs. Rocks back on his perch and rolls his shoulders. It’s doubtful that he’s doing anything more than trying to stretch out his tension, and yet, if just a moment before he’d seemed an unstoppable force – and a very real threat – the movements make this even more the case.

Loki waits for Thor to be done with shifting about. For him to choose his words and push his point and-

“So. That’s to be that, then.”

“Pardon?” For surely Loki’s misheard.

“If you don’t want to talk about it,” Thor rakes his hands through his hair, face troubled, “then you don’t want to talk about it.”

And then, just when Loki has relaxed enough to let out a breath of surprised relief, Thor adds with aching sincerity, “But I do wish you’d trust me to help you.”

It’s a low blow. Or, from anyone else, it would be. From ever-up-front Thor… “It’s not that I don’t trust you…” Everyone trusts Thor. He earns trust in much the same way that a cat does, which will never lie to you; or a wall does, which will speak of none of your secrets; or that the dead do, whom are each and everyone one of them utterly predictable.

It’s just that Loki doesn’t think Thor capable of the other things that Loki needs in this instance. Of subtlety and patience and the art of not losing his reason to rage. Or of letting others lead their own lives and fight their own battles.

“Let me help you.” Thor says when Loki doesn’t want _help_; not exactly. Though the healing was nice. “You’re my brother.” Which Loki is pretty certain isn’t true. Or only half so. “I-” and there Thor’s voice catches.

Loki’s attention latches to that imperfection; a wolf scenting blood.

His mind whirs with a thousand things that Thor could have mean to finish with there. That he _should_ protect Loki, as the older brother? Or maybe as the older prince of Asgard? That Thor feels it reflects badly on their family, if Loki is so dishonoured? That he simply _wants_ a fight and is thrilled Loki has given him just cause to go seeking out mayhem?

Whatever it is that Loki’s expecting, it’s not for Thor to actually complete that sentence as he does:

“I love you, brother. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

#

It’s spoken, throughout the Nine Realms, of how Odin protects his family; how he guards his people and how he avenges his dead. But what’s not said much, even by mother, is that Odin has kin who love one another. Thor’s words freeze Loki and, much to his own surprise, fill him with embarrassed discomfort.

“I’m pretty certain you’re not meant to say that.”

Thor, being the bloody-minded fool that he can be, just rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty certain I am.” Then he sighs, and takes Loki’s hands. It’s a pose that Loki’s only ever seen Thor adopt with their mother, and he’s not entirely certain that he likes the similarity that this draws in his mind. Which, of course, is when Thor says, “And you don’t have to tell me what happened. That’s up to you. But I want to let you know that, if I can help, Loki, I will. You need only to ask.”

Loki closes his eyes. Draws back his hands. Tries to ride out the rising, cresting, surges of emotion to find objectivity.

Instead he finds that he’s overwhelmed. And it’s with rage.

“Ask you for _what_?” He’s on his feet, the fur sliding to the floor. He should be making dramatic gestures, but his hands are full of a mostly empty mug of mulled wine. “To make me a better warrior? What more can be done? Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been _trying_!” And that’s the worst of it. For if his failure came from lack of diligence rather than innate ineptitude then…

_Now_ tears prick at his eyes. Again.

“Or maybe I should debase myself?” He tries to battle through the tightening of his throat. As ever, he seems ill suited to any advisory he faces. “Thence to ask for you to fight my challengers for me and-”

“Or.” Thor says, stooping to pick up the fur. “I could give you this, traded for that.” The mug is taken from Loki’s hands, the soft pile texture replacing it. “Before suggesting strongly that we sleep before we fight. And then, tomorrow, we can come up with a better plan.” Here his eyes are steady; his gaze meeting Loki’s dead on. “A plan we make, together.” That damn sincerity; always there. “As equals.”

Really, what is there to say to that?

“Please calm down.” It could be condescending, but Loki doesn’t think Thor means it that way. And, truly, Loki would take the words ill if he could justify doing such. So it’s not Thor’s well-meant and badly chosen words which leaves Loki’s skin near-boiling on his flesh; rather instead it is the weight of his own failures that send shame and rage crawling under his hide until it feels as though the only way he can cope with it all is to strike back.

Lashing out is not fair to Thor; not today, when he’s behaved so well. So Loki tries to calm himself. To swallow back his emotions and come up with this nice, logical plan Thor’s alluding to. Fails at plotting retribution, as he’s failed at everything today.

Loki looks away to hide the stinging in his eyes. Maybe Thor’s right, and the best they can do with this day is to turn their backs on it and fall asleep. Loki should leave.

His gaze falls upon his books; mother’s books. Books from the Queen’s Public Library. They’re by the door in a careless pile, exactly where Thor dropped them after talking one look at Loki while he’d been… less than he should have been, such that Thor had started to manhandle him inside.

Thor, valuing Loki over the books. Loki’s tormenters, not.

Loki gestures to the haphazard volumes. “They didn’t even damage mother’s books.” A bitter laugh, smaller and more forlorn than he _ever_ wants to admit to sounding. “Even when she’s not here, they respect mother so much.”

_And me so little. _ For a moment the words lie there; their shape pressing into the soft and giving flesh of his mouth. And there he seriously considers leaving them. He doesn’t.

Thor’s eyes darken; outside thunder rumbles and cracks across the summer skies. But the hands that draw Loki in are gentle, and the embrace, for all of the force that Loki _knows_ Thor can bring to bear, is startlingly tentative. The day suddenly seems a whole lot less dark and wasted. “Oh, brother! I for one, think the _world_ of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please, note that Loki is in a rather dark place. His assumptions about how he appears to others are, I hope obviously, not true. Crying or asking those who love you for support is _not_ a sign of weakness. And, with the best will in the world, those that would like to help aren’t telepathic; needing to be told that there’s a problem doesn’t mean that they don’t care.


End file.
